


Electric

by onekisstotakewithme



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Ace!Charles Emerson Winchester III, Actor!Hawkeye, Alternate Universe, Bisexual Hawkeye Pierce, Composer!Charles, First Kiss, M/M, Moses Supposes but Charles Composes, POV Third Person, queer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-28 22:12:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17795699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onekisstotakewithme/pseuds/onekisstotakewithme
Summary: For all the times Charles sits in dark theatres and watches Pierce draw the eyes of everyone present, he never thinks that Pierce might be watching him too.The year is 1949.Charles Emerson Winchester III is a composer from Boston. On a business trip, he catches his first glimpse of Benjamin Franklin Pierce, an up-and-coming actor.He doesn’t expect to see him again, but fate (as well as Honoria) has other plans.





	Electric

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_raven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_raven/gifts), [flootzavut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flootzavut/gifts), [shewho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewho/gifts).



> For Blue  
> Without you, this would not exist at all, so happy belated belated birthday ♥ (please accept this and a digital cognac)

Charles doesn’t even remember the city, the first time, it’s just one more nondescript rainy business trip in a nameless city somewhere in America.

He remembers electric blue eyes and a laugh like sunshine, and Shakespeare spilling from the lips of a young actor, and sitting in a dark theatre, he remembers thinking that  _ this  _ is how Shakespeare is meant to be performed. 

He remembers the name from the playbill he’d scrounged: Benjamin Franklin Pierce.

He doesn’t expect to find himself chasing the name from city to nameless city, chasing blue eyes and an electric smile that lights up the grimiest of stages in the lowest of theatres.

When you’re watching a star rise, every theatre looks like Broadway.

Only for all the times Charles sits in dark theatres and watches Pierce draw the eyes of everyone present, he never thinks that Pierce might be watching him too.

Until a cold winter’s night in Boston, at the end of 1949, after weeks of composing melodies befitting blue eyes and a shock of dark hair, the chords haunting him long after his sister drags him from his piano and sheet music and out into the frigid night to the closest theatre.

He still has the melody playing out in his mind, impatiently tapping out the notes on the armrest until Honoria slaps his arm and shushes him, and as the theatre darkens around him, he wishes for a pen, wishes to be back in his study.

It’s all forgotten when the curtain rises, because there he is, the specter himself.

Benjamin Franklin Pierce, dark makeup making his eyes glow under the stage lights, mesmerizing, electrifying, and Charles could swear that he looks right at Charles, his mouth twisting into a smile.

There are no melodies left in Charles’s head as he stares, free to watch greedily in the darkness, the way he has a hundred times before, only this time it feels as though Pierce is looking back at him, watching him too. 

The plot is lost on him, the other actors merely a blur of talent, background noise compared to the lead.

It’s the best performance Charles has ever seen. 

He glances sideways to see if Honoria has noticed his blatant ogling of the lead actor, only to find her smirking back at him, as if she knows. 

Damn her, she must have planned this.

He turns back, mesmerized by the manic energy Pierce seems to put out, graceful and lanky and electric, sending sparks across the stage with every word, every carefully-choreographed step bursting with suppressed energy.

Charles can’t keep from staring, and he’s helpless under Pierce’s gaze (ruthless and kind and surely not just an act). It’s all tinted with shame that he’s acting like this, but he’s so utterly taken by this man that he can do nothing but hold on for dear life and pray he won’t drown. 

And all too soon, the lights go up in the theatre, and it’s like a spell has been broken. All Charles can do is watch as the actors take their bows, his eyes drawn to Pierce right in the middle, beaming with exhausted pride as he takes in the applause he so rightfully deserves.

Charles is one of the first to jump to his feet, clapping. 

“Bravo!” he cries. “Bravo!”

Honoria giggles beside him, but all at once, Pierce’s eyes turn on him, bright and blue, and their eyes meet, and it’s like Charles has been struck by lightning, Pierce’s gaze warm and electric and challenging all at once.

The gaze lingers on him, and whatever Pierce sees in his face, he approves, because he gives the tiniest of nods and a brilliant smile, and dear  _ God,  _ it’s as though all the air has left Charles’s lungs, his heartbeat thundering in his ears, the world falling away around him. 

He’d thought himself above the childish folly of crushes, told himself that it was merely artistic admiration that sent him chasing down a stranger in run-down theatres across the country, but he hasn’t outrun the truth: he is  _ smitten. _

“Come on, Charlie,” Honoria says, tugging at his sleeve. “We have to go.”

“Go? Go where?” he asks, distracted.

“Backstage.”

He turns to stare at her. “What?”

“You heard me, we’re going backstage.”

“Wh- I-  _ why _ ?”

“Because,” Honoria says impatiently. “Donna got us these tickets and it would be rude not to go and thank her.”

“But surely you are not suggesting that I accompany you backstage?” he asks, stunned, his mind several notes ahead of him, taunting him with the possibilities.

“Somehow I don’t think you’ll mind,” she says, looping her arm through his. “C’mon, escort your little sister backstage.”

He walks with her, craning his neck to see if he can catch a parting glimpse of Pierce, as Honoria leads him through the theatre, down a series of dark staircases and dimly-lit hallways, only to emerge outside a row of dressing rooms in the brightly-lit backstage area. 

“Thank you,” she says, patting him on the arm again, before slipping into one of the dressing rooms.

“But Norie-” he starts, but she’s gone, leaving him alone. 

He sighs, already mentally preparing to head home to his quiet study and ticking clock, far away from meddling siblings and beautiful actors, and-

“Hi.”

Charles freezes in place, then turns, already knowing who’s standing behind him, but he’s certain his heart has stuttered to a halt. “H-Hello,” he manages.

Pierce’s eyes are twinkling, his grin disarming. “Call me old-fashioned, but isn’t it customary to bring flowers backstage?”

“Had I known you were here, I would have,” Charles says at last, holding out a hand. “Charles Emerson Winchester the Third.”

“I know who you are,” Pierce says, and up close, Charles sees that his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles (and it’s charming to the point of being indecent). His voice is low, and warm, and burns right through Charles like good scotch.

“Y-You do?” Charles stutters, as Pierce shakes his hand. 

“Of course,” Pierce says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, his grin growing. He releases Charles’s hand, and leans in. “In fact, I’d hoped to meet you sooner, but this will have to do.”

“I- er-”

“Your work for that radio show last fall was unparalleled, or at least I thought so. Even when I was on the road, I never missed an episode.”

Charles’s face grows hot. “T-Thank you. You know music?”

Pierce smirks. “I know enough.”

Charles is in so much trouble, God help him. 

“In fact, I was wondering, do you want to get out of here, go get a drink or something?” Pierce asks, voice even lower, and it sounds much too indecent for the simple offer of a drink. 

“With you?” Charles asks.

“No, with Winston Churchill,” Pierce says, deadpan, before he takes pity on Charles, cackling. “Yeah, with me.”

Charles takes a deep breath, because if he agrees, he’ll be flinging himself off a precipice, lured by the siren’s call of those damned blue eyes and the electricity of the man they belong to.

He nods, making his decision. “I’d like that very much, Mr. Pierce.”

Pierce’s entire body seems to glow as he smiles. “Call me Hawkeye.”

*

The bar Hawkeye takes him to is a little hole in the wall called “Rosie’s”, a few streets over from the theatre, and it isn’t until they’re sitting at a corner table with scotch that Hawkeye gives him another smile, snowflakes melting in his hair. 

“I know it’s no Ritz-Carlton,” Hawkeye explains. “But I thought you might prefer something a little more off the beaten track.”

“It’s… cosy.”

“It’s one step up from a garbage dump,” Hawkeye says, and his candor is oddly refreshing. “But the drinks are good and cheap, and it’s close to my equally dumpy apartment, which makes it perfect for a starving actor.”

“Can I ask… why Hawkeye? It can’t be a stage name, or it would be on the playbills surely.”

“Oh.” For the first time, Hawkeye looks embarrassed. “It’s a nickname my dad gave me. From  _ The Last of the Mohicans. _ ”

“And here I’d have thought Benjamin Franklin Pierce was enough of a moniker to be stuck with.”

Hawkeye laughs, ducking his head for a second. “Pretty rich coming from a man named Charles Emerson Winchester the Third, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps.” Unsure of what else to say, he sips his scotch, only to find that Hawkeye is right. It is rather a good quality for the shockingly low prices. “Have you been in Boston long?”

Hawkeye looks at him over his scotch, and smiles. “No. But I think you already knew that.”

“Did I?”

Hawkeye leans forward. “Whatever your opinion of actors, Maestro, I’m no fool. I’ve been seeing you in audiences for the past six months. I told you I never missed one of your shows? Well I know the same can be said of you.”

“You remembered me?” Charles asks. “How?”

“You saw me,” Hawk says, his mouth twisting into a smile. “I saw you too.”

“Well, I- you can hardly blame me. You’re a marvellous actor,” Charles says softly. “I’ve been in some of the finest theatres in the world, and have yet to see talent like yours. In fact, it would not surprise me if we saw you on Broadway someday," he says, and Hawkeye laughs at this.

"Flatterer," he says with a grin, but his eyes are lit up and he preens at the compliment. "You're no novice at what you do either, Mr. Winchester."

"Charles, please. Call me Charles."

"I'm no composer, but your work… is stellar. You could do so much… you talk about me, on Broadway, what about you? Can’t you see yourself writing musicals?”

"Awfully ambitious, isn't it?" Charles asks, unable to keep from chuckling. "An entire musical?"

"If anyone could do it, it would be you," Pierce says with a smile, his eyes blue, and full of intensity that stands out against his stage makeup, and lights up this dark corner of a dimly-lit bar. “And I don’t just hand out praise to anybody. I mean it… you’re… you’re magnificent, Charles.”

The way he says Charles’s name is soft, and filled with an affection Charles feels he hasn’t earned, and he reaches forward and touches Charles’s hand just for a second, before letting go.

“Hawkeye,” Charles says, before clearing his throat. “I am not merely a rabid admirer.”

“You don’t admire me?” Hawkeye asks, amused.

“No, no, I do! More than I can say.” His cheeks heat up as he realizes what he’s let slip, but Hawkeye merely smiles. “I only meant-”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“You do?”

“I love your music, Charles, and maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, maybe it goes against propriety, but…”

“But?” Charles prompts.

“But your music isn’t why I asked you to get drinks with me.”

“It’s not?” Charles asks, feeling as if he’s holding his breath, clutching his scotch to keep his hands from shaking. 

“I told you I saw you, in the audience, all those times, but it wasn’t just seeing. I… I  _ saw  _ you.” Hawkeye shakes his head, and gives Charles a searching look. “And I think you saw me too.”

“I did.” It’s barely a whisper. “God help me.”

They sit, listening to the beat-up jukebox play some hideously frothy tune Charles doesn’t recognize, and then Hawkeye smiles. “Want to get out of here?”

“And go where?”

“Does it matter?” Hawkeye asks.

Charles is reduced to stammering again, and by the time he’s pieced together enough words to form a coherent sentence, Hawkeye has already stood, tossing down a few crumpled bills on the table, and is heading for the door.

“Pierce- Hawkeye, wait.”

Hawkeye turns, one hand pushing the door open, letting in a gust of freezing air. “What is it, Charles?”

“Would you… Could I walk you home?” It’s a ridiculous suggestion, but Hawkeye doesn’t laugh, simply smiles, and nods.

“Best offer I’ve had all night. And believe me, I’ve had a few.”

Charles can’t help but laugh at this, as they step out into the darkness. The night is crisp and still, snow swirling down in the light of the streetlamps, giving the world a hushed quality.

They wander past a few streetlamps, their hands occasionally brushing, and Hawkeye may be staring at the Christmas lights tacked to the lampposts, but Charles only has eyes for Hawkeye. 

It’s barely two blocks to Hawkeye’s apartment, and it goes by all too quickly for Charles.

When they get to Hawkeye’s doorway, Hawkeye turns to face him, giving him a shy smile Charles hasn’t seen before. “Charles, listen, I’m an actor. I don’t have any clever words of my own. I just say lines that other people write. But... I really like you.”

“I find you perfectly clever,” Charles tells him. “On or off the stage. And rest assured that I like you too… very much.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds, as snowflakes get caught in Hawkeye’s eyelashes. Up close, Charles can’t help but notice a tiny scar above Hawkeye’s lip, and he reaches out, brushing a gloved thumb over it, before he realizes what he’s doing. 

“Charles?” Hawkeye asks, sounding rather stunned.

“Hawkeye…” He looks down and gently cups Hawkeye’s face in his hand. “I haven’t the proper words either, so allow me to borrow someone else’s.  _ ‘I can express no kinder sign of love, than this kind kiss.’ _ ”  And with that, he leans in, slowly, as Hawkeye watches him with wide eyes, and brushes his lips gently against Hawkeye’s. 

Hawkeye seems frozen for a second, and then he surges up to meet Charles, bringing the same electricity and passion to his kisses that he does to his stage performances, deepening it as he presses a hand to the back of Charles’s neck.

The kiss is tender and fierce and Charles is melting, can do nothing but kiss Hawkeye, and kiss him and kiss him, until finally they pull apart to breathe.

Hawkeye stares up at him in amazement, surely the same emotion reflected on Charles’s own face. And then he darts back in for another quick kiss, shaking his head as he pulls away.

“Wow,” he says.

“You’re not the only one who knows Shakespeare,” Charles tells him, a trifle smug at having reduced Hawkeye to single words. 

This makes Hawkeye laugh, a full body cackle that leaves him leaning against the doorframe, weak with laughter, and Charles can’t help but laugh too. It’s infectious, the way Hawkeye laughs, and Charles couldn’t resist if he wanted to.

Finally Hawkeye reaches out and squeezes Charles’s hand. “Good night, Charles.”

“Good night, Hawkeye.”

He turns and starts to walk away, the prospect of going back to an empty apartment with nothing but a ticking clock and a blank piece of sheet music seeming less enchanting by the second. He’s certain he leaves most coherent thoughts behind on Hawkeye’s doorstep, to be picked up with the morning paper once Hawkeye has slept enough to come to his senses.

Charles hopes he doesn’t.

And then someone is grabbing his shoulder, and he turns around, only to find Hawkeye staring up at him, grinning. 

“Fancy a nightcap?” he asks, giving Charles a grin that’s almost sheepish.   
“I thought you’d never ask,” Charles tells him, following him.

He doesn’t remember the city where he first laid eyes on Hawkeye Pierce, but he’s certain that he’ll never forget this. 


End file.
